


Frights and Fever Dreams

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7182923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Joly is injured by a patient who potentially has hydrophobia, a festering wound creates problems in the present, while fear clouds the future.  Despite Joly's fears, Bossuet, Musichetta, and the rest come together to care for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frights and Fever Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shellcollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellcollector/gifts).



> This was written for ShellCollector the canon era fic exchange. Mild warning for discussion of canon-era medical techniques, which could range from the ingenious to the desperate and wrong. Hydrophobia was one of the early words used to describe rabies; lockjaw is what we now call tetanus.

_Frights and Fever Dreams_

A group of soot-covered workers bring the patient in, his twitching form held upright by two individuals who could probably lift Joly single-handedly.

A smell accompanies them, a thick, cloying, rancid odor that tells Joly this is going to be bad even before he sets eyes on the man. A third large man marches up to Joly, picking him out of the hospital crowd as someone in charge after only a quick look around. Thrusting a fistful of money toward Joly, he begins talking in a clipped, quick language that Joly doesn't recognize. Is it some variant of Polish? There has been another influx of immigrants over the last few months.

Two of the orderlies are already converging on the small group, their eyes hard. They look to Joly before actually touching anyone, though, which Joly appreciates.

"Sir." Joly cuts off the man's stream of words, reaching out slowly to press the hand with the money back toward the man's chest. Financial concerns can wait until after Joly knows what's going on. "I am terribly sorry, but I don't understand you. Do you speak French? Parisian or Occitan or Gascon? Or Latin or a bit of English?"

The man stares at Joly, his shoulders slumping down as his face contorts in frustration. When he speaks again, it's in mangled Parisian French. "Ill." Gesturing back toward his friend, the man mumbles out the barely-comprehensible word. "Friend. Help. Please. _Money._ "

Again the man holds out the currency, and again Joly shakes his head. Pointing at the others, Joly speaks slowly, hoping that the man will understand him well enough to give a comprehensible response. "Do any of you speak French?"

The patient groans, his back arching as a tremor runs through his body; the two men supporting him stare at Joly with wide eyes. One chews on his lip for a moment and then mutters out a wary, uncertain, "Help?"

Joly resists the urge to sigh. The day has been quiet up until now, so he supposes he was due for something like this. "If I'm to help as much as possible, I'll need to ask you questions." Joly touches his fingers to his mouth and then to his ear. "To communicate? I'm going to go see if I can find someone who can assist. Allow these gentlemen to help you arrange your comrade on a bed."

It takes only a few terse commands to set the orderlies about their duties, and once he's done that, Joly dashes toward the hospital door, leaning heavily on his cane so that he can move as quickly as possible. Squinting against the afternoon light, Joly looks about for one of the unfortunately ubiquitous urchins. Spotting a small male child who has proven resourceful and trustworthy in the past, Joly waves him over.

Presenting a small coin to the boy, Joly leans down so that they're on a more even level. "I need you to find a person for me and deliver a message. Can you do that?"

The boy reaches out to take the coin, nodding eagerly.

"Good. There'll be another coin or two in it if you're successful in bringing one of the men I'm going to describe." Joly gives the child first Jehan's name and likely addresses and then Feuilly. Feuilly is more likely to know whatever language the workers are speaking, but Jehan is an adept at many languages and may be able to provide at least a rudimentary translation. Jehan is also the less likely to be inconvenienced by having to come to Joly's aid.

Once the boy is on his way, Joly makes his way back to his patient. The man has been arranged on an empty bed, the leg of his trousers sliced open and a rough bandage removed from his leg to reveal a terrible festering wound. It is not the worst injury Joly has ever seen—the maggots crawling in this wound are still incredibly small, and it looks as though someone has been attempting to keep it clean—but it is still grievous, and in combination with the way the man is twitching, the fever and glassy eyes and tension of his whole body...

Hydrophobia and lockjaw both jump to the forefront of Joly's thoughts, but there is no reason to assume something so terrible yet. Fever alone can cause dramatic changes in neurologic function, and the patient is incredibly febrile, heat radiating him as though a bonfire lurked beneath his skin. Plus this man's skin has turned an almost sunflower-yellow color, which doesn't fit with either of the fatal illnesses.

Not that jaundice such as this is _good_. Joly can actually think of no reason for such a dramatic bilious overflow that has a less-than-terrible prognosis. Still, it is his job to do what he can to ease the man's suffering, and to give answers to his friends and family about what is happening.

Assuming, of course, that he can _communicate_ with the man's friends. "Can you tell me what occurred, good sirs? How did he come by the wound?"

The men confer with each other, watching Joly anxiously as Joly begins his examination of the patient. All the lymph nodes on the right side of the man's body—the side with his injured leg—are dramatically swollen. The left are also swollen, though not so badly. The flesh of the man's leg is edematous, holding the shape of Joly's pressing fingers for well over a minute. Tremors tense the man's body repeatedly, and his breath comes in short, sharp pants.

Pointing at the injury, Joly fixes the man's friends with a firm stare. " _How?_ "

"Dog?" One of the men mimes a creature with four legs walking, using the fingers of both hands to do so.

Another opens his mouth, giving an imitation of a snarl.

Joly nods. "When? Date?"

Again the men confer, and Joly waits patiently for their response.

"Two weeks?" The leader of the men is again the one who answers, his voice holding all the frustration of an eloquent man fighting against a barrier of language. "Three and ten days."

Joly nods. "We're going to have to clean the wound, to remove the dead tissue and the maggots. He may very well lose the leg. I must be honest with you good sirs—no matter what we do, with the shape that the gentleman is in, there is a good possibility of his passing."

Once more the men confer, and then their leader shrugs his shoulders, giving Joly a despairing look. "Help. Please."

Inclining his head in acknowledgment, Joly stands to summon one of the orderlies. Given the patient's state and the communication barrier, he suspects that he's going to need a great deal of assistance.

Everything goes well for the first fifteen minutes. They are able to clean the wound decently, giving Joly a better idea of what he will have to do surgically. Amputation may be the best option, but the patient is clearly in no state to survive that kind of physical stress.

It's a seizure that ruins everything. If the man had waited just five more minutes, Joly would have had Prouvaire there to translate for him, to explain to the frightened men what is being done. If the orderlies had been more patient, less wary of these worn foreign workers; if Joly had kept a better handle on the situation...

But he doesn't. The man seizes while Joly is in the midst of surgery, his body arching up in a vicious bow. The scalpel bites down into healthy flesh. Blood sprays up. The patient begins screaming; the man's friends begin pulling at Joly, voices raised in what must be demands; the orderlies move in to establish order.

Another spasm wracks the patient's body, his foot lashing out. One of the orderlies shoves a worker away; the worker responds by punching him in the face. Before Joly can restore order, a full brawl has broken out.

He doesn't know who it is who shoves him down atop the patient, whether it's one of the workers or one of his people. He had kept hold of the scalpel, but it clatters out of his hand as his weak leg buckles. The bed totters, and both he and the patient are dumped unceremoniously to the floor.

"Stop!" Joly barks out the command. "Damn fools, all of you, _stop_ , before..."

Something wet is trickling down his right arm, dripping from his fingers. Something heavy pulls at him, making it impossible for him to rise.

Did he cut himself? He must have. There is no physical way human teeth could have made the gash that he is looking at.

But there _are_ human teeth locked onto his flesh, his patient staring up at him with glazed, desperate eyes that don't actually seem to see anything. His body continues to arch in continuous seizures.

"Sir..."

Whether it was his words or his tone or his blood, Joly can't tell, but something has given him back control of the situation. Forcing his voice to be steady, his teeth not to chatter, Joly gestures at the man currently biting deeper into his flesh with every convulsion. "Assistance with restraining the patient, please. There's still a great deal that we need to do..."

XXX

Bossuet waits patiently for Joly to join him, nibbling at a bit of bread and sipping at wine as he does.

Joly is late. Given that he was working a stretch at the hospital, that likely means things have been unpleasant. Bossuet had thus made sure to order a vintage of wine that Joly likes as well as some small appetizers to nibble at, though he has resisted ordering an actual meal. Joly likes having others to share his meal with, and Bossuet doesn't want to rob him of that pleasure on an already-difficult evening.

The door to the cafe swings open, and Bossuet raises his head to check, as he has every time. He tells himself not to get excited, that it is probably not the person he is waiting for, but still—

Joly looks _terrible_. His complexion is pale, all color seeming to have been washed from his skin, his eyes unfocused and glassy as he looks around the dining area. Spotting Bossuet, he moves toward him, leaning heavily on the cane clutched in his right hand. His left arm is held to his chest in a sling.

Rising quickly, Bossuet moves to Joly's side, placing a hand on his elbow.

Smiling in gratitude, Joly leans against Bossuet as they make their way to their table and then drops heavily down into his chair.

Taking his own seat again, Bossuet pours a glass of wine for Joly and settles it within easy reach of Joly's right hand. "My dear man, I'm afraid you may have forgotten what your role at the hospital is supposed to be. Though you are supposed to be patient in your role, you are not supposed to be a patient."

The ghost of a smile touches Joly's mouth as he lifts his glass and takes a few sips. "I'm afraid I was rather terrible at all my roles today."

"I very much doubt that." Bossuet can feel a smile on his own mouth, and does nothing to suppress it. "You have never been much good at failure, my friend."

All trace of mirth vanishes from Joly's face, his shoulders slumping before he sits up straighter, a twinge of pain flashing across his visage. "I believe I've now made up for it. But you've no desire to listen to me mope."

"I could listen to you discuss anything, Jolllly, and find myself content. If you need to discuss something from the work day, do." It will not be the first time Bossuet has listened to Joly discuss difficult days at the hospital; it will undoubtedly not be the last. "And I can assure you there is one thing that has gone quite well. The simple gift of your presence has lifted my spirits."

Joly can't quite repress his smile. "Your spirits are always ready to be lifted. If there is a gravitational attraction that works to pull souls down, to drown them in darkness and despair, your spirit rejects it utterly."

"This depends on what we mean by lifted spirits. I find myself quite enamored with many of the things of earth." Nudging Joly's foot with his under the table, Bossuet tears a bit of bread into easy to eat pieces and sets it in front of Joly. "Come, now. Spill your tale so we can find a way to laugh at it."

"I doubt there's any way to laugh at this one." Ducking his head, using the fingers of his right hand to shred the bread into crumbs that the rodents of the city will find quite amenable, Joly frowns at the scarred tabletop. "I lost a patient today, and almost had his friends imprisoned for the crime of caring about him."

"Ah, Joly..." It is, sadly, more days than not that Joly will say he lost a patient. Though medicine is improving—though Joly has been collecting eclectic knowledge from around the world to make himself into the best possible physician—there are still far more ways for bodies to break than there are ways to patch them back together. Usually Joly is, if not _content_ with the situation, _understanding_ of it, not taking blame onto his shoulders for that which he could not control. Sometimes, though, situations get under his skin. "Whatever happened, I very much doubt it was your fault. And if these gentlemen are the reason you're currently injured, then I have no sympathy for them."

"They were frightened. They haven't learned the language yet, and they didn't understand what I was doing. They thought..." Joly shakes his head, closing his eyes. "It doesn't matter. Prouvaire helped straighten the situation out, and my standing in society has finally been put to good use. There is only one empty place at their table tonight. As for the scratch to my arm... it's nothing."

"Nothing?" Bossuet narrows his eyes, feeling a frisson of tension run through his whole body at the way Joly whispers the word and looks away. "Joly, I have never known you to say an injury or illness is nothing. Please don't say you're trying to hide something from me, my friend. Especially not in such a transparent way."

"I..." Joly seems to have shrunk down in his chair, and he gives his head a little shake of negation. "I don't wish to concern you unnecessarily."

"If there is cause for concern, I would share it with you." Reaching across the table, Bossuet lays a gentle hand atop Joly's. "A burden shared is a burden lessened, yes?"

Turning his hand over so that their fingers are laced together, Joly closes his eyes and draws a shuddering breath. "Do you remember when we were studying hydrophobia?"

"Of course I do." A smile pulls at Bossuet's face as he remembers the month during which Joly had been certain that every little twitch and tic was a sign someone had been infected. "It was—wait, you don't mean to say that you've been exposed?"

"I don't know." Joly's words are a quiet whisper, almost lost in the susurrus surrounding them. "It could have been many other illnesses—it was certainly _more_ than simply hydrophobia. The patient died shortly after injuring me, and we'll be performing an autopsy tomorrow, but no one has determined how exactly hydrophobia affects a person or how to be certain if someone died of it. And if it _was_ something else, if it was lockjaw, we've no idea what causes that, if it's some miasma or if it can be passed through fluids or—"

"Joly." Bossuet squeezes Joly's fingers, just once, a gentle reminder of where they are. It brings the mounting panic to a halt, and after long, long seconds Joly opens his eyes to stare at Bossuet. "It's going to be all right. No matter what this patient died of, it wasn't any fault of yours, and you have not acquired his illness. You're going to be all right."

"I'm going to be all right." They have had this conversation many times before, and Joly smiles, the familiarity of it clearly giving him comfort. "Come. Let's eat and talk of more pleasant things. I would like to think of anything other than the hospital right now, if you don't mind."

"It would be my pleasure." Flagging down one of the waitstaff, Bossuet places an order for food before turning to Joly with one eyebrow raised. "Musichetta will be joining us later tonight, you know. She would be here now, but it seems one of her Ladies—one of her revolutionary ladies, mind you—has run into a bit of trouble. While she was visiting a lady friend of hers, they somehow—and I will be the last one to say the means by which this happened—managed to exchange undergarments. Now this wouldn't be a problem except that there are some pamphlets sewn into the undergarments that could be rather... upsetting to those of a more tender nature—"

Within three minutes Bossuet has Joly laughing along with him at the misadventures of Musichetta's friends, and they pass the evening in comfort and camaraderie, both of them knowing better than to spend good time worrying about things they cannot change.

XXX

They pass the evening and the night pleasantly, though Joly insists that the bed be arranged properly with regards to the magnetic compass before he will lie down. He also directs Bossuet and Musichetta to open each window a particular amount, creating what he calls the optimal air flow to dispel miasmas, and burns a bit of incense.

"The gentleman who sold it to me said it's to drive away spirits." Joly sighs as he finally allows himself to stretch out on the bed. "Of course, everyone knows now that illnesses are not spread by malignant spirits, but still... there might be some truth to the healing properties of the smoke."

"It's a pleasant enough smell, at least." Suppressing a yawn, Bossuet wonders what other tasks Joly will set for them.

Joly seems content with those arrangements, though, and falls asleep quickly. He appears to be in much better spirits in the morning, too, when he asks Bossuet and Musichetta to help him change the bandage on his arm.

"Not too bad." Joly makes the declaration with his neck craned to give him the best view of his injury possible, and Bossuet regrets briefly that he has few art skills and only a bit of descriptive ability when it comes to wounds. Musichetta comes to the rescue, holding a small mirror so that Joly can more easily see the injury. "A little bit calor and rubor, the expected amount of dolor, but nothing to be disturbed about yet. Of course, if I have acquired hydrophobia, this could be well healed for a good month or two before—"

"You haven't acquired hydrophobia." Musichetta presses a kiss to the top of Joly's head as she gathers the dirty bandages together and takes them away.

"Focus on getting this healed up." Bossuet begins wrapping a fresh bandage around the injury, following Joly's quiet instructions. "Worry about other eventualities when they come."

"Or never?" Joly dons a slightly pained smile, his fingers clenching as Bossuet works his way over the worst of the wound.

"Or never! Have you ever seen me worrying about anything?" Testing the tightness of the bandage with a flick of his fingers, earning a wounded look from Joly, Bossuet settles down on his heels in front of his friend. "Worry takes energy from action."

"A valid point." Joly tests the bandage with his good hand before standing and reaching for a shirt. "I will endeavor not to worry, then. Help me to dress?"

Bossuet does as asked, and when they all take their leave for the day, everyone is smiling.

It's a situation that changes that evening, when Joly comes home pale and feverish.

Musichetta is donning her coat even before Joly has finished taking his off. "I'm going to fetch Combeferre."

Joly blinks at her, his eyes unfocused. "There's no need. I'm—"

"Going to sit and let me look at that arm again." Taking Joly's cane from him, leaning it against the wall, Bossuet very gently puts a hand on each of Joly's shoulders. "Come, Joly. Sit for a bit. Let me see what's happening."

"I'm just a bit tired, that's all." Joly stumbles, and it is only Bossuet's hands that keep him upright. "I... perhaps should have ordered myself to bed rest."

"Perhaps you should have." Bossuet settles Joly into the most comfortable of their chairs, helping him to slide the rest of the way out of his jacket as he does. "It's something that we're going to ensure you get plenty of tomorrow."

"Did Musichetta..." Joly frowns, staring at the door as though he's just seen it. "She's not really going to get Combeferre, is she? I—"

"Will it hurt?" Bossuet undoes the cuff of Joly's sleeve, seeing if he can roll the material up far enough for him to work on the bandage without stripping Joly of the rest of his clothes. "Will it truly be a terrible thing to have another set of eyes upon the injury?"

"Well, no." Slumping down in his seat, turning his eyes away from the pink-stained, foul-smelling bandage that Bossuet has revealed, Joly shakes his head. "It won't hurt."

Unwrapping the bandage, Bossuet stares in dismay at what the wound has done over the last twelve hours. Pus leaks down from the injury, yellow and watery; the slight irritation that had been present before has given way to dramatic puffy redness with a bruised undertone.

"Clean it." Joly still isn't looking at the injury. "Warm water—as hot as you think I can stand, honestly. Then we'll rebandage and see what happens overnight."

Combeferre comes in while Bossuet is still working on cleaning the injury. His step only hesitates a bit, a split second pause, but it's enough to make Bossuet's heart drop through the floor. "Well, Joly. You seem to have come by a bit of a nasty wound there."

"For the record, I would not recommend allowing a patient to chew on and bleed into a scalpel slice." Joly's lips twitch up at the corners. "Just in case you were wondering."

"I will take that into consideration." Easing Bossuet aside with a gentle hand on his shoulder, Combeferre takes Joly's injured arm in his and begins carefully manipulating it. "I also hear tell there's a potential that the patient suffered from hydrophobia?"

"A potential, though unconfirmed." Joly's face pales as a thin stream of pus once more leaks down from the wound.

"The latest recommendation for that potential is to cauterize the wound." Combeferre presses very gently on the flesh around the opening, easing more yellow-red material out of it. "Is that something that you think you could handle? I have silver nitrate with me..."

"If it needs to be done, I can certainly handle it. Bossuet will hold me if I flail." The absolute trust in Joly's words belies the grim reality of such a task, but Bossuet is touched by it anyway. "Though last I had read the recommendation was to keep the wound open as long as possible, to allow drainage?"

"At Dr. Frobisher's guest lecture last week—the one that was supposed to be on electricity's effect on flesh—a digression was made in which the points for and against were discussed." Combeferre uses a rag and the warm water that Bossuet had acquired to clean the wound once more. "My feeling on the matter is that the case for cautery is stronger, but if you wish to wait..."

"I trust your judgment." Drawing a shuddering breath, Joly's eyes search swiftly about the room until they land on Bossuet. "Would you mind...?"

Combeferre is quick and efficient, and Joly does remarkably well at staying still. Musichetta holds his good hand while Bossuet restrains his injured one, and only when Combeferre hits a particularly sensitive area is there any stress against Bossuet's grip.

For the ten minutes that follow the cauterization Bossuet and Musichetta simply follow orders, trying to make head or tails of the information that the two doctors banter back and forth. The general consensus of the two seems to be that since the wound had been draining well, and Joly still has good feeling in his fingers, it isn't necessary to bleed him. Bossuet is grateful for that, at least; restraining Joly for two painful procedures in one night would have been terrible. The conversation that follows, about different herbs and their potential usefulness in healing injuries, might as well be in Chinese for all that Bossuet is able to follow it, though at least the culmination is sensible.

"We are trying to induce healing, Joly." Combeferre's exasperation shows clear in his voice. "Not turn you into a stew!"

"I would very much like to induce healing!" Joly's eyes blaze with more than fever-brightness as he answers Combeferre. "Especially because I may be infected with hydrophobia. To dismiss all that other cultures have said about the healing properties of various plants—"

"I don't wish to dismiss it. Our ancestors knew a great deal, and I'm sure there is knowledge to be gained from other lands as well. Was it not the Greeks who stressed cleanliness of wounds, something that we are only now returning to as a cornerstone of the profession?" Combeferre takes the length of bandage that Musichetta has been holding with more patience that Bossuet would have had. "But the greatest impetus put upon us is to do no harm, though, and unless things progress—"

Bossuet tries not to let the queasiness he feels at the thought of things progressing show on his face. He has seen men die of septic wounds following fighting in the streets. The idea of that happening to Joly is not one he can stomach.

Wrapping the bandage around the wound with grim proficiency, Combeferre continues on. "I see no reason to risk untested methods."

"Understandable." Joly smiles at his friend, the fight seeming to drain from his eyes as the sight of the injury recedes beneath clean white linen. "About the... other potentialities..."

"I wouldn't worry yourself unless symptoms begin to show. If they do..." Combeferre shrugs, though his eyes are troubled as he moves to wash his hands. "There have been several new suggestions made about treatment once symptoms have begun. There is talk of using small tinctures of strychnine or lead—"

Joly groans. "These are not the same gentlemen who recommend drowning or castration, are they? Because I am almost tempted to say that dying of hydrophobia would be preferable to both of those."

"They are not the same gentlemen." A smile touches Combeferre's face. "But this talk can wait for later. No sense borrowing trouble from the future."

Joly nods. "Not when we've enough of it in the present. Thank you, Combeferre. I appreciate your care."

"Any time." Combeferre collects his medical tools. "Now, you are to rest. Eat light meals only. Drink frequently—what do you think, wine to help balance the humors?"

Joly's smile widens. "I can definitely be persuaded of that."

"Good." Slipping back into his coat, Combeferre dons his hat. "Take good care of him, you two. I'll be back to help change the bandage again in the morning."

Bossuet sees their guest out, closing the door behind him, and turns back to Joly. Seeing Joly's bright smile, he hopes that tonight will be a repeat of last night.

XXX

It is not a pleasant night.

Joly begins shivering two hours after Combeferre leaves, and Bossuet is fairly certain that none of them get any rest after that. He and Musichetta take turns sitting with Joly wrapped in their arms, trying to calm the violent trembling of his body. Sitting before the window, hoping for the night air to draw some of the heat from his body, only seems to make it worse; sitting before the fire helps a little bit, though when it is warm enough for Joly to be comfortable Bossuet finds himself drenched in sweat.

"I'm sorry." Joly whispers out the words, his teeth still chattering off and on as he gazes at the dancing flames.

"No need to be sorry." Pressing a kiss to the back of Joly's neck, Bossuet tries to hold the man closer, though he knows it isn't physically possible.

"You might..." Inhaling sharply, Joly rides out another series of tremoring shivers. "You might not wish to do this. To sit so close to me."

"It's the wound festering, nothing more. You'll start healing soon, and this will all be a very bad dream." This will be a nightmare, one that Bossuet thinks he will live through in his dreams—once he is able to sleep and dream again—for a very long time.

"But if it's not—"

"Jolllly, my good man, how is hydrophobia usually passed?" Bossuet is glad that he helped Joly to study during medical school, because it means that he knows at least some bits of information that can be useful.

"Bites. Usually animal bites—dog bites." A shiver runs the length of Joly's frame once more.

"And you are not going to bite me." Both of his hands are already occupied hugging Joly, so Bossuet once more presses his lips against the side of Joly's neck. "Not without provocation or encouragement, at least. There's no risk."

"I won't... in my right mind." Joly's breath pauses, just for a moment, but it is enough to send fear spiking through Bossuet's chest. "But who knows... how long that will last? Fever... does strange things to a man. And if there is some other way hydrophobia could be transmitted, something we don't k-know—"

"I am staying with you." Bossuet tries to pack all of his certainty, all of his love, all of his desperation into the words. Sweat trickles down his back. "Nothing could make me wish to leave. And I suspect Musichetta will say the same."

"That's because... you're both fantastic." Joly laughs, a strange sound, half-sob, half-ecstasy. "Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, come what may, thank you."

"No need for thanks." Rocking them side to side, Bossuet blinks sweat and tears from his eyes. "Just get better, Joly. That's all we ask. Get better."

He doesn't get better.

He continues to shiver, and by the time Combeferre comes again Joly has progressed into brief patches of delirium.

Bossuet doesn't need Combeferre to actually speak to know how grim the situation is. All he has to do is look into Combeferre's eyes as Musichetta holds Joly's arm still and Bossuet holds Joly's body so that Combeferre can look at the angry red wound.

"Joly." Combeferre speaks gently, but with a quiet insistence that causes Joly to blink and actually focus on him. "Do you understand what's happening, my friend?"

"Y-yes." A shudder runs the length of Joly's body.

"The wound is festering badly. It may..." Combeferre hesitates, one of the few times Bossuet has seen him at a loss for words. "Your arm..."

"Only if absolutely necessary. Please." Tears spring to Joly's eyes, quiver with the shivers that wrack his body. "I am a surgeon, Combeferre, the same as you."

"I understand." Combeferre nods. "Bossuet, Musichetta—are the two of you comfortable continuing to nurse him here? We could—"

Musichetta is already shaking her head. "We keep him here. We care for him ourselves."

"Very well." Combeferre dips a clean rag in the pot of boiling water at his side. "Hold him tight. I'll do this as quickly as I can."

Joly doesn't fight, though his lips turn pale and Bossuet thinks he comes close to passing out. Once the arm is wrapped again, this time slathered in some kind of strange ointment and what looked to all the world like _honey_ , Combeferre sets about mixing a draught.

"For pain." Holding the cup to Joly's lips, Combeferre helps him to drink. "And to help with sleep. We'll keep him here, by the fire, where it's warmest."

Combeferre spends the next five minutes describing how he wants Joly to be cared for—how to wash him down with damp cloths, how often to administer water, how they should withhold food, how to administer the pain medication if it becomes necessary. He talks of what they may have to do in the future, bloodletting being the first possibility, amputation something he will try to put off as long as possible. Bossuet tries to listen, to keep everything straight, but the words seem to becoming a buzzing discordant symphony sometime between Combeferre's mouth and his ears.

"Go to bed."

Fingers are resting against his wrist, and Bossuet blinks Musichetta's face into focus. "I'm—"

"About to collapse on your feet, which will do me and him no good." Musichetta brushes a gentle kiss against his cheek. "Sleep. I'll wake you in a few hours, and I'll sleep while you care for him."

Bossuet wants to argue, but Musichetta's eyes are tired, too, and the last thing he wishes to do is make her waste energy fighting with him. "Wake me if you need me, or if you need to sleep."

Musichetta nods, claiming the spot that Bossuet had occupied, Joly's body cradled against hers.

Worry tries to keep him awake, but fatigue is a harsh mistress, and the moment Bossuet settles down he is asleep.

He wakes he doesn't know how much later to find Musichetta curled against him, her breath coming in the steady rhythm of sleep. For a moment he forgets that there is anything wrong and wraps an arm around her, holding her tight. There is someone missing from the tableau, though, and that is all that's needed to send him tumbling out of bed, certain that the worst has happened.

"Calm yourself, Lesgle." Grantaire's head turns to look at him as Bossuet stumbles to a halt halfway to the agonizingly warm fire. "Or are you that interested in this little book of tales? I am not enthralled, and he seems to have fallen asleep, but if you truly have dire need of hearing about the dangers of drinking oneself into oblivion every night..."

Joly is, indeed, sleeping. It isn't a quiet sleep, too fitful and restless, but it is better than what he achieved overnight. "How... but..."

"Combeferre told us what has happened." Grantaire hoists his book in one hand, a damp washcloth in the other. "We—that being the Amis, of course—are going to assist you."

Musichetta's hand closes on Bossuet's, tugs him back towards the bedroom. "Come rest with me some more. When you've had your fill of sleep, you can join Grantaire."

Bossuet allows himself to be drawn away, more grateful than he could say for Grantaire's presence and the promise of more help to come.

The days that follow are agonizing. The wound and the fever don't worsen, which Bossuet is grateful for; they don't seem to want to heal, either. Combeferre is there three or four times a day to change the bandages and frown down at the wounds. When Joly is coherent, they confer; when he is not, Combeferre mutters to himself in sentences that probably contain more Latin and Greek than French.

The others come by in ones and twos, to visit Joly and help with his care. Courfeyrac brings his cat-grin and a delicious meal. Prouvaire writes or reads poems, themes of love and death intertwining in ways that should be disturbing but somehow end up either bittersweet or poignant. Feuilly comes unexpectedly in the evening, and plays a bit of music on a strange-looking flute while Bossuet and Musichetta hold Joly close. Bahorel and his mistress share a shift, the two somehow making Bossuet laugh despite how worn and thin he feels. Even Enjolras comes, working quietly and efficiently, murmuring reassurances to Joly in the same melodious voice with which he calls for freedom.

The fever breaks first, after five long days. Bossuet is holding Joly again, rocking the two of them in front of the fire. At first he thinks it is another fever-dream starting, and he tightens his hands, preparing to hold Joly tight against whatever unseen monsters lurk about them.

"You're... crushing me, Bossuet." Joly pats at Bossuet's arms, his voice thin and strained but perfectly coherent.

"Joly?" Raising one hand to press against Joly's forehead, Bossuet is relieved to feel no abnormal heat. "Are you... how do you feel?"

"Terrible." Joly tilts his head to smile tiredly up at Bossuet. "And like I must have given you quite a fright."

"It was nothing." Bossuet swallows against the tightness forming in his throat. "You've been quite reasonable, actually. Haven't even checked your tongue for the last few days."

A hoarse chuckle rolls its way out of Joly's throat. "I... will have to get on that right away. I don't... want to miss any signs of illness, now do I?"

"Oh, Joly..." Burying his head on Joly's shoulder, Bossuet takes deep breaths, trying hard not to cry. Crying because everything looks like it's going to be all right would just be silly.

Musichetta joins them a few minutes later, and they share breakfast, Bossuet spooning Joly a thin gruel after the doctor vehemently reassures him it will be just fine, no matter what Combeferre ordered before.

It is, all things considered, the best breakfast Bossuet has ever had.

XXX

The wound heals slowly after that, but it does heal, leaving Joly with a tender pink-white scar across his arm and a head full of fears.

Things come to a head when they are out at dinner. After the twentieth time Joly pulls away from what would normally be a comforting touch, Bossuet has had enough. "Joly. My good man. My jolly fellow."

Joly winces. "I've truly earned your ire now, haven't I?"

"You do not have hydrophobia." Bossuet tries to make each word forceful, punctuating them with a stab of his roll toward Joly. "You are not going to give _us_ hydrophobia."

"You can't know that." Joly shrugs, the motion somewhat symmetrical now that his arm is on the mend. " _I_ can't know that. No one can."

"If you _were_ going to transmit it to us somehow, it would have been while we were nursing you, don't you think?" Setting his meal aside, Bossuet leans toward his friend. "And before you say that we shouldn't have, I would not have left your side for anything in the world."

A small, fond smile steals across Joly's face. "You are too kind."

"You are too important to me." Claiming Joly's hand, Bossuet runs his fingers along the man's knuckles. "And that is why I would like you to stop worrying, please, and enjoy my company like you used to."

Joly takes a moment to think, and then squeezes Bossuet's hand gently. "I will try. I promise."

"That's all I ask, dear Jolllly." Raising Joly's hand to his lips, Bossuet presses a kiss to it. "That's all I ask."

XXX

When Joly walks into the back room of the Musain, he is not expecting anything special.

He is certainly not expecting all of his friends to rise to their feet and call out a toast in his name.

For a moment he stands stunned, leaning heavily on his cane as he blinks at his friends. "Many thanks for the joviality, but to what do we owe the occasion?"

Combeferre is the one who answers, raising his glass as he does. "It's been over three months now since you were injured. If you had acquired hydrophobia, you should be symptomatic at this point."

"Oh." Joly lets out a breath, quickly running through the math in his own head. The week where he tossed and turned in fever is hard for him to remember, and he had thought the day when he could stop worrying was still in the future. "I... well. That is very good news."

"Yes, it is." Enjolras smiles as makes the statement.

"It's fantastic news." Moving to Joly's side, Bossuet reaches out and claims his hand. "Does this mean that you'll finally stop worrying?"

"About this? Oh yes." Joly allows Bossuet to pull him to his seat. "About everything? I'm afraid not."

Bossuet laughs. "Well, I would not want you to become a whole new person." Settling himself in the seat next to Joly, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to Joly's cheek. "We're all quite fond of you just the way you are."

Joly smiles, feeling a flush that has nothing to do with fever burning in his cheeks as Bossuet pours him a glass and the others look expectantly at him. "To good friends and pleasant dreams."

A round of cheers goes up, and Joly clinks his glass against Bossuet's before taking a quick, pleasant drink.

Joly already has the best friends in all the world, and right now being here with them, alive and whole, seems almost good enough to be a dream.


End file.
